Facade
by lumos1
Summary: Two years later. . .he's an auror, he's lost his parents, he's Seamus Finnigan


[A/N * Well, my first short Harry Potter fanfic concentrating on Seamus. . .set two years after graduation. I'd love to know you think, but it's not mandatory :9 though highly appreciative. Thanks,   
-  
Court]  
  
  
The scene in front of him seemed so unreal. . .tall, green trees stretching into miles of forests, grey clouds hanging loosely over the dusky sun, the sound of birds flying high above him on destination to a warmer place. . .being home was always nice, but how could one come home to the one thing that would devastate you?   
  
  
"Finnigan."   
  
  
He looked up, his sandy hair falling into his green eyes as he turned quickly to see the man standing next to him. It wasn't that he didn't like people, it was that you couldn't sure who was touching you, who was there, and what they were doing. Constant Vigilance. He laughed in spite of himself, it reminded him of fourth year, oh god was that five years ago?   
  
  
"You okay?"   
  
  
Shrugging, he looked out into the gloomy horizon. That's right, it should be gloomy in his opinion. When was the last time he had been here. . .five years ago. . .five long years ago. So much had happened in those five years. . .so much, too much.   
  
  
"The ministry is sorry about your parents. . .one was a muggle, no?"   
  
  
Another shrug.   
  
  
"You sure you're okay Finnigan?"   
  
  
Yet another shrug.   
  
  
"How's life treating you. . .otherwise?"   
  
  
A chuckle escaped his throat. You could always trust Percy to change a subject when he felt that someone was growing uncomfortable. He wasn't uncomfortable talking about the recent events, he just didn't talk about them with pompous, over-grown Percy Weasley, the youngest british minister of magic that the wizarding world had ever seen.   
  
  
"Finnigan, can you talk?"   
  
  
He shrugged in a patronizing manner as he opened the door to the small house. . .his home. The surroundings were still as cozy and plush as they had been four years ago. . .the red couch, missing some threads against the wall, swivel to the left and the clean, homey kitchen where his mother cooked his favorite foods like irish stew. He shut his eyes and recalled how she had been cooking a dinner of mutton when his Hogwarts acceptance letter came, he recalled how happy she was, how they had danced around and she made his favorite dessert. . .so many memories in that kitchen.   
  
  
He stepped inside the kitchen, breathing in the smell of rosewater and spices that still lingered on it, the sounds of laughter and happiness still echoing off the walls. He looked at the wooden table and sighed. . .card games with dad, talks about girls with his mum, board games with friends, and tall glasses of milk with chocolate chip cookies during the late night for snacks. Memories, nothing more.   
  
  
"Well, Finnigan, what did you want to do about your parents?"   
  
  
When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, throaty, and raspy. Nothing like the cheerful boyish voice he had all through Hogwarts. "Bury them here."   
  
  
"Here?" asked Percy as if in shock.   
  
  
"Here." he confirmed, the lump in his throat growing bigger. "At their home. At my home."   
  
  
"I. . ." Percy faultered and shook his head, "Understood."   
  
  
He nodded and left the kitchen, walking down the dark hallway. Which room was it that Voldemort had snuffed his parents, in which room did they cry out for mercy and help? And all because of him. . .all because of him. He felt the familiar burning pricks at the corner of his eyes and tried hard to concentrate on something happy. . .he willed his thoughts onto his girlfriend of the past year, Lavender Brown.   
  
  
The sound of pure quiet rang in his ears as he closed his hands around one of the golden knobs. His old bedroom. A place he hadn't been since he was fourteen. Why had he stopped coming home? Why had he decided to spend the Holidays with Dean? All because his muggle father couldn't stand the sight of having an abnormal son. . .and it wasn't even that. His muggle father couldn't stand the fact he didn't play Quidditch, that he wasn't top of the line in Academics. If he couldn't be a normal kid who played baseball then he had to be the best in the Wizarding world, but he wasn't the best.   
  
  
He closed his eyes once more as he shut the bedroom door behind him. He didn't want to see it right away, he needed a moment. When he opened them he looked slowly around the large room. From the four poster bed with plaid sheets to all the irish qudditch team support banners. He shook his head, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, the last time he was here was after the Quidditch World Cup in 93? 94? He couldn't quite remember. He lovingly reached out and touched the green shamrock which was still trying to sputter Connelly.   
  
  
He stopped at the dusty wooden desk. . .his finger drawing a clean line down the cover of his favorite book at fourteen, 'Magical Me' by Gilderoy Lockhart. People often said he looked like the old git, and he found his writing to be humourous if not all blantant lies. He should know, Lockhart had taught his Defense Against Dark Arts course in his second year of schooling.   
  
  
If he had never had Lupin. . .He couldn't blame the best teacher he had ever had. It wasn't Lupin's fault that he became interested in defending people, and he couldn't blame Moody, er Crouch, for getting him into Auror news. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for choosing the career he did.   
  
  
He sat gingerly on the old bed, the corner turned down, as if they were waiting for him to send an owl saying he was coming home. He looked at his hands. . .scarred, weathered, and old. He was nineteen and he looked and acted like he was forty. . .he had taken so many lives, broken so many homes, but did the death eaters deserve lives, did they deserve homes?   
  
  
He looked up at the white ceiling and then around the room at the posters of Celestina Warbeck (who turned out to be a real bitch in his opinion), the Irish National Team of '93, and various other wizarding things. His eyes dropped on the framed picture of his mother and himself. . .her barely eighteen, him barely a month old. With a shaking hand, he reached to it and held it up. He had killed her. Not by his own admission, but he had killed her.   
  
  
He howled. The clear tears fell from his green eyes, down his pale cheeks, and onto the glass covering the picture. The great Auror Finnigan, barely eighteen, barely out of Hogwarts, had saved so many lives, captured so many aurors, and here we has at nineteen, sobbing like a baby over his parents. The parents he had shunned from the age of fifteen, the parents who has tried to give him everything, the parents he murdered.   
  
  
He'd never forget the owl he got just days ago. Percy had tried to convey feelings of sorrow, but he knew Percy didn't care. . .all Percy cared about was himself and his stupid position of minister of magic. Sure, Percy was only twenty-what? Six? and Minister, but he needed a heart. The eagle owl had flown in his window at ten pm. . .announcing his parents had been murdered by a sick and twisted death eater who was mourning the loss of her husband who he had just captured. The death eater had been under impression of Voldemort it was okay and had been ordered to dispose of them in a subtle manner to tell Finnigan to quit now and come to their side, or die.   
  
  
Was he really next on Voldemort's list? Did he care? Who would've thought that the once popular, somewhat shallow boy of Gryffindor would come straight out of Hogwarts as an auror? Who would've thought he would be touted as the next Alastor Moody, catching as many death eaters and supports of Voldemort in one year that Moody had caught he's whole career. He put his hands behind his head and held the picture frame close to him. Did he really care he was next to die? He had put so many people away, Voldemort was on a failing course.   
  
  
But. . .why couldn't Voldemort came and took him. . .not his family. Seamus buried his head in his hands, the photograph next to him. His body racked with sobs as he finally let all of his pent up sadness and anger out. How come them. . .his mum was never very powerful, and his father a dear muggle. He sobbed harder, the tears falling from under his hands and creating wet stains on his black robes. . .black for the solitary of the moment.   
  
  
It was hours later when he looked at his brown leather watch. . .it had once belonged to his father, and he remembered receiving it on his thirteenth birthday, he remembered trying to bewitch it, but it hadn't work and instead the watch had almost grew two heads. He shuddered at the memory, but it brought a small chortle from his throat as he stood up and wiped his damp cheeks. It felt good to cry and if he was right. . .he'd be crying many more times.   
  
  
A quick look in the mirror told him he was red-eyed and puffy, but he didn't care. For once he, Seamus Finnigan, wasn't going to hide behind a facade. He wasn't going to pretend to strong, happy, and cheerful like he had been at Hogwarts. He, Seamus Finnigan, had emotions and feelings, and he wasn't afraid of them anymore. He, Seamus Finnigan, knew he'd all of those emotions to survive what was coming. . .and that was okay. He'd do it, but he'd catch the death eater who killed his parents before Voldemort came for him. He, Seamus Finnigan, looked in the mirror and smiled at himself. 


End file.
